Lilian Braun - The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare

"I'm sorry about your luggage, Polly."

"I'm sorriest about those four thousand books."

"It's the library I'll miss most of all," he said. "I saved only one thing. When the auction van delivered the desk, I bribed the porters to bring Mrs. Cobb's wedding present out of the house, so the Pennsylvania schrank is in the garage along with Ephraim Goodwinter's old desk."

The telephone rang, a welcome sound after hours without service. Qwilleran grabbed it. "Yes? ... It's been out of order, Dr. Hal. What's the situation? ... That's bad, but there's worse to come. They've identified the arsonist... Would it help if I went to the hospital and had a talk with her? ... Okay, I'll let you know how it goes."

He replaced the receiver and gazed at it thoughtfully.

"What's the trouble, Qwill?"

"Mrs. Cobb was doing all right until she tuned in her radio and heard the news about the fire. Then it was hysteria-time all over again."

Polly left for work, and the telephone started to ring — and ring. Friends, associates, and strangers called to voice their horrified reactions and offer condolences. Prying busybodies wanted to know who had set the fire — and why. On Main Street a steady stream of motorists cruised around the Park Circle, gawking at the ruins.

Junior Goodwinter's phone call from Down Below came as a surprise. "Qwill! I can't believe it! Jody got a call from Francesca. She said they haven't identified the torch."

"It was Hackpole! One of your own fire fighters."

"Not anymore! They dumped him last spring for infraction of rules. When and if he showed up for training, he was half-shot."

Qwilleran said, "I'm greatly distressed about your mother's accident, Junior. That was a terrible thing."

"Yeah, I know. What can I say?"

"There's been no announcement about the funeral."

"No funeral. I talked to my brother and sister, and we decided to have a memorial service later."

"How will this affect the revival of the Picayune?"

"No one knows yet, but I have some good news. You know my dad's fireproof box — it had a key to a vault in Minneapolis. He'd been putting a hundred years of the Picayune on microfilm, and he didn't want anyone to know he was spending the money."

"And I have some good news for you," Qwilleran said. "Your great-grandfather's desk is in my garage, and it's yours when you marry Jody."

"Oh, wow!" Junior yelled.

The telephone kept on ringing. Hixie Rice called to inquire if the Siamese were safe and if they needed food. Shortly after, her high-heeled boots were clicking up the stairs, and she delivered a doggie bag of chicken cordon bleu.

"I was absolutely devastated when I heard about the fire," she said, looking about for an ashtray. "Mind if I smoke, Qwill?"

"Okay with me," he said, "but don't blow smoke at the cats. It'll turn their fur blue."

She pocketed her cigarettes. "I should give them up. They say the damn things cause wrinkles."

"Cup of coffee?" Qwilleran suggested.

"If it's your famous instant poison, no thanks."

"Any news about your chef and his knives?"

"Brace yourself," Hixie said. "Did you hear about the unidentified body found in a car stuck in a snowdrift? Well, that was Tony, fleeing to Canada in my car!"

"You really know how to pick 'em, Hixie."

"When I told you he escaped through the washroom window, I didn't tell you the whole story. Tony was a French Canadian living here illegally. He changed his name and bleached his hair. I could live with that, but... he tried to defraud the insurance company."

"That's bad."

"He sold his car to a chop-shop and reported it stolen. That man was an insurance investigator. The first time he came snooping around, Tony took off in the camper and spent a few days in the woods — "

"On my property! You told me he'd gone to see his sick mother in Philadelphia. And now what? Does the loss of your partner affect your job?"

"That's what I want to talk to you about, Qwill. My boss was planning a Caribbean cruise with the Goodwinter woman until she decamped with another man and got killed."

"So he wants you to go in her place," Qwilleran guessed. "Well, he has the reservations and the tickets..."

"Hixie, you're a one-woman true-story magazine. If you're looking for advice, I have no comment to make."

"That's okay. I just wanted to bounce off you. You're so sympathetic."

When Hixie had clicked down the stairs in her pencil-heeled boots, Qwilleran prepared for his visit to the hospital, wondering about Mrs. Cobb's wedding night: Did he threaten to torch the museum? Why didn't she warn us?

He found her sitting in an armchair in her pink robe, staring out the window without her eyeglasses. There were pink carnations and snapdragons on her bedside table, but her radio had been removed. A note propped against the flower vase read: "We miss you — Koko and Yum Yum."

"Mrs. Cobb," he said quietly.

She groped on the windowsill for her glasses. "Oh, Mr. Q! I feel so terrible about everything. I was afraid the cats were trapped in the fire, and I almost died! But now I know they're safe. The flowers are so pretty. I could cry, but I don't have any tears left. When I heard about the museum, I wanted to kill myself! I was sure Herb did it. Did he do it?"

Qwilleran nodded, slowly and regretfully. “The body has been identified. The evidence is all there. I'm sorry to bring you this sad news."

"It doesn't matter. The worst has happened. And I feel so guilty. It's all my fault. Why did I get involved with that man? He did it to spite me — to get his own way."

Qwilleran pulled up a chair and sat down. He spoke gently. "I know it's painful for you, Mrs. Cobb, but no one is blaming you."

"I'll go away when I get out of here. I can live in Saint Louis. I've called my son."

"Don't run away. Everyone likes you. They consider you a valuable asset to the Historical Society and the city. You could open an antique shop — do appraisals — set up a catering business — start a cookie factory. You belong here now."

"I don't have anywhere to go-anywhere to live. That was my home."

"I imagine the Goodwinter house will be yours..."

"Oh, I could never live there... not after what happened."

"It's Junior's ancestral home. He'd want it occupied by someone like you — with your love for old houses."

"You don't understand..."

Qwilleran’s drooping moustache and mournful eyes were compellingly sympathetic. "If you talk about it, you might feel better. Yesterday morning you came trudging through the snow in a weakened condition, after being ill all night. He did something grossly offensive to upset you."

"It was what he told me."

Qwilleran knew when to be silent.

"He was drinking. He always got talkative and boastful when he had a few. I didn't mind that."

Qwilleran nodded with understanding.

"He used to tell me about doing heroic things in the army. I didn't believe half of it, but he liked to talk that way, and it did no harm. Once he told me that his father killed Senior's father in a fight, and his uncle helped to lynch Ephraim Goodwinter. He was proud of it! I was so stupid! I went along with it and flattered him." She sighed and looked out the window.

"And then... on Saturday night at the hotel..."

"He started bragging about killing deer out of season... overcharging customers... cheating on his taxes. He thought that was smart. He said he did the 'dirty work' for XYZ Enterprises. I didn't know what to say. I didn't know whether to believe him." She looked to Qwilleran for approval or disapproval.

He gave a neutral nod and looked encouraging.

"It was my wedding night!" she cried in anguish.

"I know. I know."

"Then he told me how his shop did repairs for the Goodwinter cars, and he knew Gritty very well. He kept a bottle in his office and they drank together. Him and a Goodwinter! He seemed to think it was an honor! I guess it's all right to tell you this; she's gone now. They're both gone."